Colors
by the snow and the stars
Summary: Black is the color of darkness, a world that she lives in where her skin is beaten black and blue. Red is the color of her swollen skin, which decorates her body like a masterpiece meant to hang on the wall. She lives in colors because she doesn't know how else to live. Jackunzel/Modern AU
1. BLACK

This... was supposed to be a one-shot. But it got so long, I had to cut it down to chapters, lol. The chapters, for the most part, will be pretty short! There are 10 colors total (so 10 chapters), and most of them are little blurbs. Please read and review! I really love feedback!

This is a (kind of) darker fic. And Rapunzel and Jack are on the OC-er side because of that. I tried to keep them in character despite the circumstances, but I don't think that really happened all too much.

Summary: Black is the color of darkness, a world that she lives in where her skin is beaten black and blue. Red is the color of her swollen skin, which decorates her body like a masterpiece meant to hang on the wall. She lives in colors because she doesn't know how else to live.

Pairing: Jackunzel (obviously)

Rating: T

BLACK

* * *

Black is the color that she lives in because there is nothing she can do to get herself out.

There is a world outside of hers that moves and breathes and passes with time, but she is tucked away, wrapped in a box so that her vision runs black, and she can see nothing but what _she_ shows.

"Rapunzel, dear, come here," she hears _her_ say.

"I love you so much," _she_ says.

"You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me," _she_ says.

But actions speak louder than words, and Rapunzel doesn't know what to do when black becomes the black and blue that paints her skin, and love becomes a cage that traps her in.

She loves her mother, she really does. But that doesn't stop her heart from cracking under the pressure of the thorns of her fingers, and it doesn't stop her from drowning in the pain that she's in.

So she lives in black.

Because she doesn't know how else to live.

Because black is all she can see.


	2. GRAY

This was, by far, the worst chapter to write. I just got stuck on it or the longest time.

It is also going to be the longest chapter in the story, if I'm not mistaken. I've written the entire story, but I've been rewriting everything over and over until I feel like everything's perfect.

Anyway, I hope you have fun with GRAY. It was a pain in the ass to write. I finally just rewrote the thing from scratch, and it turned out A LOT better. So now I'm really happy with it.

Again, sorry for any character OCness! (It's gonna happen, so don't be surprised).

GRAY

* * *

Gray is the color of the moon. Bleak. Dank. Yet, shining in the night sky and shimmering in the reflection of the ice-cold blue water. It is a mixture of white and black, innocence and darkness, intertwined like two colors dancing the tango.

She's never seen past black before, never seen what it's like on the other side. And because of that, she's never had a chance to understand anything past the darkness she lives in.

Tonight, loud music pumps behind her. The trance is so heavy that it vibrates the walls, hurting her ears—and she's not even inside the house. That's the dumbest part.

She doesn't go to parties often. She actually hates them. The music is just too heavy, and there's just too much alcohol and too much smoke everywhere she goes.

But tonight, her mother is drinking.

And she's found that parties are the best distraction when she wants to get away from it all. The music is loud enough to block away her thoughts, the smoke is foggy enough to keep her mind away, and there are enough people to divert her attention.

And when her mother is drunk, she's never aware of when Rapunzel is gone.

Because, in reality, she's gone too.

She keeps her legs huddled underneath her long dress and pulls her denim jacket tighter to her. She wishes she had brought something else along—a scarf, a thick coat, _something_ other than her dress and jacket. The weather is tip-toeing between fall and winter, the temperature in the air dropping to low degrees. And to her, it's freezing.

She's never really liked the cold. Too chilly. Too many goose bumps. Not her type of weather.

She should probably go inside, but she can't stand the scent of weed. It's too much for her. So she's stuck outside because she'd rather be cold than stuck in the smoke.

Her eyes glaze over the ripples in the water, and she notices a figure walking in her direction, which is strange because she's off to the side of the party, away from the crowd. But it obviously doesn't matter to him, and she's not surprised when he sits down next to her, pulling up the ends of his pants before soaking his white feet in the water.

He's a stranger, but she's seen him before. At school, at parties. They've never talked before, but tonight, it doesn't matter.

"Staring at the water must be a lot more fun than partying," he comments. It's not smug or haughty. She's not really sure what it is, but she knows he means it in a good way. He nods to the crowd screaming and jumping inside the house, cheering as people score higher and higher at beer pong. "You're missing all the fun."

Fun. What is fun? She's never had fun in so long.

"I doubt it," she smiles. "Besides, I like staring at the water."

"Really," he says doubtfully, raising his eyebrows.

He doesn't believe her, but she really means it. Her face flushes under his scrutiny, and she brushes a strand of hair back as she turns to stare at the water. "Well, yeah. Because… water is always changing. And to paint water, you have to know what it looks like, at all times. Night and day. That way, when you paint it, you don't have to reference to other pictures. It'll always be in your memory, right here," she says as she points to her head.

He watches her as her face brightens just talking about it, and he realizes that she's being serious—that this 'staring at water' is not just a comeback but a thing to her. A smile touches his lips because the way she talks, so eager and excited, makes her look so cute.

She can feel his eyes on her and can already vision her face turn a darker shade of red. "Sorry," she stammers. "I didn't mean to ramble, it's just—"

"This is… actually a thing to you," he says slightly in disbelief, interrupting her apology.

She frowns. "A… thing?"

"Hey, don't be offended," he says gently, raising his hands in defense. "Most people just usually don't… you know, stare at water. For fun."

"Well, how do you have fun then?"

"Talking to pretty girls like you," he grins cheekily and keeps grinning as he watches her roll her pretty green eyes. But then he shrugs. "I don't know. I just kind of… go with it."

"Go with it?"

"Take risks. You never know what you're missing out on if you never take risks." He pauses and looks her up and down. This pure, innocent girl. "You… don't look like the kind of girl who takes risks, am I right?"

"I take risks!" she replies defensively, but they both know she's lying, and she doesn't have to say a word—the color on her face screams everything.

"Really," he says doubtfully.

Her lips have formed a pout, and he likes watching her struggle to come up with a way to prove him wrong. She stares at him for a few moments before taking a glance at his soaking feet, her eyes darting between his feet and her own, which are tucked underneath her dress. It's cold; she can feel the frost nipping at her nose, but she knows, in order to prove him wrong, she has to do _something_.

She takes a last peek towards the tip of her toes before immersing them into the ice-cold water. She shivers at the impact because it makes her feel as if she's sunken her entire body into the snow.

"Wow," he smirks. "What a risk."

She's shivering now because the water is freezing, and as a girl who was already cold to begin with, she is now 10x colder than she was before. "It really was," she replies seriously.

"See? How about that? Risks are important and vital to the fundamental basis of fun."

"It was a risk!" she protests.

"Oh, I'm sure it was," he replies gravely.

He turns to her and flashes a grin, and she finds herself smiling back in reply, mainly because his grin is so infectious that she can't help it. He laughs as he watches her attempt to smile back, but her chattering teeth keep her from giving him a full-fledged grin. Damn, she is so cute. For a moment, he's really glad that he's left the crowd of the party to meet her because she's something special. He already knows it.

As he watches her shiver, he decides he probably needs to do something. So he tears off his sweatshirt and tugs it over her skinny body before jumping into the pool in a loud -_splash-. S_he shrieks at the cold, cool collision. "What are you doing?" she gasps, as she's wiping water off her hair and face. "What is the point in giving me a sweatshirt if you're just going to get me soaking wet?"

He pops his head out of the water, tossing his head back so that his hair is sending droplets of water flying around him. His white hair is now a dank gray, framing his forehead in thick, heavy strands. His hands rub over his wet face, wiping off the excess, runny liquid. He swims towards her and props his elbows on the curbside of the pool, throwing her a wolfish grin, teeth flashing. "Having fun." He shakes his hair again, and she flinches as she comes in contact with the water. "Now _this_ is what you call a risk."

"This sweatshirt was pointless! Now I'm colder than… _ever_!"

"It was a risk I was willing to take."

"Until you get sick on your death bed," she mutters as she uses her two small hands to squeeze the water out of her long blonde hair.

"That' s funny. I don't get sick."

"Everyone gets sick."

"Not me. And definitely not because it's cold."

"Plus, you're wet," she points out.

"Well, I'm pretty special," he says.

She's still shivering, and he's kind of sorry that he splashed water on her. But at the same time, he's craving to pull her in with him, see her figure soaking wet, and have her lips on his. He's completely attracted to her, and he's not afraid to admit it. Before he knows it, he's leaned in so that his forehead is touching hers, his slick one against her dry skin. He adds huskily, "Damn, I really want to pull you in right now. But I guess that's probably not the smartest thing to do."

And just as quickly, he pulls away and flashes her his shiny white teeth as a spread of red flushes over her cheeks from the intimate contact.

And before she knows it, he's pulled her into the water with him, catching her so that her body is pressed up against his. Her head's dipped into the water for a few minutes before he pulls her back up, pressing her back against the wall. She has to swallow for air, and he gives her a few moments until she catches her breath. "What on earth are you doing?" she shrieks. "You just said it wasn't the smartest thing to do!"

He shrugs. "It wasn't. But that doesn't mean I wasn't going to do it." He leans in closer, their foreheads touching once more. Her back is fully pressed against the wall, and he's swimming well enough to support the both of them in the water. His arms have encased her in, and he grins as he sees her cheeks grow red at his touch. His breath is hot and raggedy against her ear, "It was a risk I was willing to take. This one too."

Before she can ask _which _one, his lips have pressed into hers, soft, slow, strenuous. One of his hands finds its way to her face, gently caressing her skin through bare touch before brushing back her long blond hair and tucking it behind her ear. At first, she's not sure what to do, but it feels so good that she starts to follow in his steps, repeating his motions with her own.

It feels like a moment of forever before he finally wrenches himself a way, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. Though it's dark outside, he can still make out the red tinge that has splattered across her face, which makes him chuckle to himself. He leans in again and plants one last kiss on her lips before breathing, "I'm Jack, by the way."

She's breathless and at a loss for words. It takes her a few minutes to finally muster out her name because everything inside her is suddenly fading from black, and she's not sure how she feels about it. She's not even sure what just happened, but it doesn't even matter because… she liked it. "Rapunzel."

He laughs because she's cute, and it's been a while since he's met a girl as cute and honest as she. He helps her out first before pulling himself out for good. With a hand outstretched, he smiles, "Let's get you somewhere warm. You're freezing."

And for the first time in forever, she's actually having… fun.

And suddenly, her world doesn't look black, just a much, much bleaker gray—as gray as the moon.

But she can't tell if it's real or just a delirium.

-x-

She doesn't get home until late because she assumes that the later she comes home, the more likely _she_ will be asleep.

But that's a lie.

And she's wrong.

And _she's _awake.

_She's _screaming, her voice riding at the top of her lungs. Her arms are wildly thrashing, throwing empty beer bottles at the wall. Some hit Rapunzel by accident, slicing her skin enough to bleed. She's scared; she's not sure what to do.

"Why weren't you home?" _she _screams.

_She's_ coming closer, so close that she's got Rapunzel backed up against the wall.

She's fragile against _her_ touch; she's never been strong, never been able to defend herself. She convulses as she feels hands wrap around her throat, squeezing so tight that she can't even breathe. Her mother is shrieking in an earth-shattering voice, but she can't concentrate on what she's saying. Her blood is pulsing, but her mind is out of it, blackening from the impact. She should be so used to it so that everything feels like nothing, but it's so hard.

She wants to numb out everything, but it's just so hard.

Her body slams against the wall, and she slides down to the floor. She can already see tomorrow's paintings on her body before it's even bruising.

She feels like thorns are ripping her body apart, claws are tearing away at her skin, but she doesn't know how to stop it.

She sits there, useless, motionless, unable to take anymore.

"You useless piece of shit," her mother spits, her drunken stupor oozing through the tone of her voice.

_She's drunk_, Rapunzel tries to tell herself. _It's not her fault_.

She knows it's a lie—she knows it's a lie, but how else is she supposed to survive, if she doesn't believe a lie?

Today was supposed to be gray. Because she met him. But her mind slowly traipses away, her conscience slowly riding from her brain, as the fatigue and the pain take over her entire body, fading to black.


	3. RED

Wow, thank you guys so much for the feedback so far! I love hearing your thoughts, so please keep them coming!

Rating: T

RED

* * *

Red is the color of her swollen skin, which decorates her face like a masterpiece meant to hang on the wall—not on her body. Swatches of red and blue and black and purple paint her body, a mixture of deep, dark, sunken colors. She can feel the pulse of her blood throbbing underneath her skin, hot from the impact. She knows she needs to ice it before she goes to school—that, or she's skipping entirely. There's no way she's going to waltz in with bruises all over her face.

No. Way.

"I have to go to work," her mother sighs. _She _pulls her into a hug, caresses her hair with her fingers. "I love you so much, dear."

"I love you more," she replies back softly.

"I love you most." _She_ lifts her chin up, so that her eyes lock onto her. Love? _Her_ eyes are stone hard, cold as ice. But Rapunzel only sees it as _her _love and nothing else. "Come straight home after school. We don't want another repeat of the few weeks prior."

"Of course."

After _she _leaves, she scrambles around her house for something—_anything_ —to cover it up. She takes painkillers and numbs it with ice before caking on concealer and foundation, made specifically for the cover up of tattoos. But none of it works. The red is still there, and so are the large swollen bits and pieces.

She gives up and rubs everything off with water. She can't go to school looking like this. Everyone will know, and she's not up to everyone knowing.

So she does the next best thing: bundles herself in scarves and hoodies, hoping that it will be enough to cover the colors up. She takes a look in the mirror, and it's enough. Just barely, but enough. She crosses her fingers, hopes her teacher won't say anything about the hoodie on her head. She forges a note, hoping that there's some way to prove that she has it on for clinical reasons.

She keeps her head down at school. She doesn't want to be noticed, especially with the colors on her face.

But in class, her teacher calls her out. "Rapunzel, take off that hoodie."

She flushes, "I-I can't."

"I'm sorry?"

"She said she can't!" someone in the back calls out. She turns around, surprised, and she catches his eyes. _Jack_. She's only seen him in school since their meeting, but they've kind of been talking. They're in that awkward "talking" stage where they'll text and say hello in the halls but never have enough time to get a good conversation going. He mouths to her, '_I got you_' before continuing, "She's sick."

"Well, Mr. Frost. She can certainly take off a hoodie."

"But it's on doctor's orders. She can hardly even speak—come on, don't make her worse then she already is. If she doesn't keep the temperature in her head, she's screwed. You don't want to be the one to make her screwed, do you, Teach?" Jack smirks.

Her teacher frowns. "Do you have a note to prove that, Rapunzel?"

She nods, hands the forged note she has written under her mother's name this morning. Even if they called her, her mother would go along with it because she would understand. _Don't let anyone see those bruises. _ The teacher scans it over and hands it back before continuing class. She turns to him, mouths a '_thank you' _before turning back to her notes.

"So," he says later to her, leaning against her locker. He takes a look at her hoodie, takes the fabric of the hood in his fingers before closing in on her, "what's really the story here?"

She flushes. There's no way she's telling him. "Nothing," she says, her voice muffled behind her plentitude of scarves.

"Oh, come on. I even helped you back there. The least you could do is tell me why I helped cover for you." He leans in closer, smirking. "Don't tell me… it's a hickey?"

Her face turns bright red, and even behind her hoodie and her scarves, he can still see the tinge that has plastered her face. "N-no!"

He feigns hurt. "Have you been cheating on me?"

"We're not even dating."

His eyes darken as he takes a turn from his jokes. "Seriously, Punzel. What are you hiding?"

"It's none of your business," she says, a bit sharper than she means to. She sighs as she closes her locker door. "Sorry, I'm… sorry. I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

And that's the end of their conversation, but he's wary as he watches her leave. He pulls out his phone, sends a message, and watches as she jumps at the vibration in her pocket. He chuckles at her startled, irritated face before she pulls out her phone to open the new notification.

-_2351 Westborough Ln.; Burgess, PA 18015. Don't hesitate to come over, whenever. Or call me if you need me. I'll be there.-_

She turns around, surprise written all over her face. He gives a little wave of the hand and smiles. '_Call me,_' he mouths before turning away.

And for some reason, she does.

-x-

She's red, all over. No scarf. No coat. Nothing to hide her now dirty face. It's worse than this morning, she doesn't know why. She had done exactly as _she _had said: gone home after school. But something in her mother clicked, and the bomb went off.

When he opens the door, he's shell-shocked by the bruises that decorate her body, the cuts that line her skin. His eyes want to cry when he sees her, and he pulls her into his arms despite her protests. She doesn't know how it had happened, doesn't know why she's suddenly standing in front of him.

After the fight, her feet had grown a mind of their own and just… walked. And she walked until she landed right where she is—with him. And she finds it strange because they are not friends, not neighbors, not family—just acquaintances that come in contact through passing.

But now she's here, and she can't go back.

His fingers trail her bruises and her scars and her wounds, and she flinches at his touch. He is pained to look at her hurting expression, but does not stop giving his touch to the art on her body. All he craves to do is pull her in, kiss her lips, kiss her wounds until she can no longer feel the pain.

"What happened to you?" he asks gently, lifting her chin so that her eyes meet his.

"Noth-" she begins to say, but she stops when their eyes come into contact. She suddenly wants to cry because when she looks into his eyes, they are so full of an endearing, affectionate emotion—and it's been so long since she's seen it in anyone. She wants to say "nothing," but now she's not sure how to respond because they both know that "nothing" is a lie.

"It hurts," she replies, finally.

He stares at her, scrutinizing her with his eyes, and she does not turn away. She watches as his pupils drift from hers to the artwork that has decorated her skin, and the red that has transferred from her body to his. Conclusively, he asks, "What hurts?"

She's confused because she hadn't expected him to respond. At least not in that way. She doesn't answer his question, but she doesn't need to for him to understand. His eyes are pained, and she doesn't know why. He is merely an acquaintance who _may _have given her her first kiss, but still just a stranger in passing, so why does he care so much, why does he look so… sad? She doesn't understand, can't tell what he's getting at.

"Who did this to you?"

And at that, she looks away, tears forming in the crevice of her eyes—because she can't tell the truth; she can't expose her secret.

He doesn't ask anymore, only pulls her into a hug and kisses the top of her head. "Hey, hey," he says gently, trying to sway her from her thoughts. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. If you need anything, ever, I'll be right here for you."

And red is the color of the blood on her skin, the color of the scars on her cheeks, and the tinge of the welts and swells, but it doesn't matter for a moment because she feels as if, he's right. He'll be there for her, whenever she may need him. And that's all that matters.


	4. ORANGE

Thank you SO much for the feedback and the favorites and everything! I'll always love to hear more!

Rating: T

ORANGE

* * *

Orange is the color that she imagines as the men in black are handcuffing her mother, taking her arm by arm before tucking her into the car.

"No!" she screams, crying, frantically shoving her way through the crowd, desperately trying so hard to get to her, to get to her mother. "Stop! Please!"

But he stops her with one arm, takes his empty hand and covers her eyes as hot tears run down her face. She can't breathe. She feels her chest tighten, heart stopping, her body telling her to slow down—but she can't. Her lungs are completely out, pushing forth for her to reach for the air, but all she wants is her mother.

Because her mother is her mother.

And no one _understands._

It's her mother, they can't take her away!

"Jack," she whimpers because she knows it is not smart to push against his arms when he is doing everything in his willpower to hold her back. He's never liked her—she _knows _that. But he has to understand. He has to understand; he promised he'd always be there for her. He _promised_. "Please. Please tell them to give her back to me."

He doesn't know how to respond, but looking at her crying is like taking a claw and slowly dragging it across his heart before ripping it out and shredding it to pieces. He wants to do anything he can to stop her tears, but he knows that it's physically impossible. He knows that what she wishes for—her mother—is completely out of his hands.

He hates that. He hates that through all the pain and misery he's watched her force herself through, that through the colors of her world and the colors that decorate her skin, she still wants her mother. That even though her mother has forced her to suffer so much, she's still crying for her. And it tears at him inside to know he can't do anything to help her.

Her wishes are not something he could ever fulfill—nor anything he would ever want to. He hates her mother, despises her for hurting the most precious person he has ever come across. And he never wants her to hurt her again.

He knows keeping her happy is impossible because her safety is more important to him than her wishes. And he knows he's being selfish, but he can't help it. She means too much to him to let her life be taken away at the risk of her mother. She's too young, too innocent, too perfect to throw it all away at someone else's hands.

And he can't do that to her.

And he knows they've only known each other for a few months, but he can't help it.

So he continues to be selfish because what else is there?

"I won't do that," he says softly. "I won't, and you know it."

"They can't take her!" Rapunzel screams, struggling to get out of his grip. Her sobs are coming out harsher, coming down in full-fledged tears. He can feel the warmth underneath his hand, but he refuses to let her see as they take her away. "They can't! She's my mother!"

"Rapunzel, she hurt you."

"She's my _mother_."

"Rapunzel… there's nothing we can do."

"I don't believe you," she cries, giving up in his arms, crying into his hand. "I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry," he replies as he gently pushes her head against his chest until she has fallen into his arms. He hugs her tightly, his arms wrapping around her shoulders as she sobs against him. He plants a kiss atop her ahead, and he promises that he'll never let anyone hurt her—not if he can help it. Her hot tears soak his shirt, but he doesn't care because he only wants her to be safe.

Her eyes flash orange as she imagines her mother being locked away for life, for hurting her daughter, for almost killing her daughter, for putting her daughter's life at stake so easily in front of their neighbors that they had felt so obliged to call the cops.

All she can see is the orange her mother will wear for the rest of her life, and "sorry" will never be good enough to take her mother's spot.

Never.


	5. YELLOW

I really thought about adding more to this, but I read it over again, and I just really like it the way it is. This is a color that shows how she's dealing without her mother for just a moment, how even though she loves her mother, she _is _trying. And even though Jack hates her mother, he's trying everything in his power to make Rapunzel comfortable.

And this is that chapter.

The shortness of the way it flows makes sense to me because it's just a glimpse at her momentary happiness.

So, I hope you guys think so too.

Again, thank you SO much for all of your love and feedback! It's been awesome, and I appreciate everything! :D

Rating: T

YELLOW

* * *

Yellow is the color of her golden hair glistening under the gilded sun as he takes her long mane with one hand and scrolls through his laptop with the other to figure out how on earth people braid girls' hair.

His lips are folded over the hair band, the elastic gripped tightly between his teeth as his fingers scroll endlessly through the instructions on the screen. He sighs in frustration because, damn, girls' hair is so confusing.

He wishes it was as easy as his hair. Shower, run fingers through, done.

But no.

His fingers knead their way through her luscious blonde locks, weaving back and forth as he attempts to follow what he sees.

She's staring at the ceiling in his room—his room, because after her mother's arrest, she's found that she has nowhere to really go. And because she's eighteen, she is entitled to go where she wants. And she's learned that there is really nowhere she wants to go.

Her heart aches for her mother, and it is strange not to feel the burning sensation of pain in her skin that she is so used to. She knows it's criminal. She knows it's harmful. But she's so used to it, that everything else feels… wrong.

She knows Jack's trying. And so is she.

But she'd be lying if she said it was easy.

Because it's not, and she's not sure what she's doing anymore, now more than ever.

"You have too much hair," he mutters with the band in his mouth, interrupting her from her thoughts. His hands twist her hair in, what he assumes, all the wrong places.

She attempts to smile because she knows he's just cracking a small joke to break the tension in the air, but it's hard for her to laugh. So she doesn't. "Sorry. My mother braided my hair for me, so I never learned how to do it."

"Really," he says, frowning. She knows he hates it when she brings _her_ up, but she can't help it. Because _she's_ her mother. And _she_ is still a part of her life as anything.

"Yeah," she smiles, her face brightening at the thought. "She'd brush it and sing to me and braid my hair and tuck all these pretty wild flowers in it. It was beautiful."

He makes a sound but does not respond. But the tug in her hair gets tighter, and she knows he's not happy.

"I'm sorry," she says softly after a while because she knows she's made him angry, and she doesn't like it when he's angry.

He doesn't say anything but ties her braid together. His knobby fingers struggle to get the hair band into her hair, and it wiggles around his fingers a few times before it settles tightly at the knot of her braid. "It's not perfect," he says as he stares at the long golden braid, comparing it to the image on his laptop screen. He grimaces. "At all. It's not going to be your mother's braid. But it's… something. And I'll learn. I'll do this so often that you'll get your mother's braid again."

She looks in the mirror while he's in the shower, turning around so that she can see the cascade of her long blonde locks twisted and tied in what he has attempted. And the grin on her mouth grows so wide as she glazes over the messy knots, the flyaway hairs, the uneven portions, the awkward twists.

The yellow of her hair does not glisten as perfectly as it does in her mother's braid. But for a moment, it doesn't matter. Because the braid she wears is perfect.

Because it's Jack's.

And yellow feels good. Feels happy, a momentary pleasure.

Because she has Jack.


	6. GREEN

Thank you, thank you, thank you SOO MUCH for all the reviews and favorites! I appreciate them all, so thank you so much! :D

Pairing: Jackunzel

Rating: T

GREEN

* * *

Green is the color of her emerald green eyes. They are the emotions inside, and watching them is like watching the clouds shift from beautiful white to a darkening gray, shifting with the moods of the sky.

He can deal with green at first.

At first, when she's with him, her green eyes are tearful, water aligning the crevice of her eyes, drifting down her skin. Her eyes are desperate for her mother, wishing to do anything to bring her back, devastated that there's nothing she can do, nowhere she can go, nowhere she belongs, and it kills him inside to see her crying—and he can do nothing but offer her his shoulder to cry on because his words mean nothing when he has not experienced what she has experienced.

But her green eyes slowly brighten, singing sunshine and rainbows the more time she spends with him. Her eyes have turned from desperation to satisfaction, the dark green hues brightening with each passing day. And when they walk across the stage together, everything's okay. Because she's trying to be happy, and he's trying to make her happy, and she's going to therapy, she's remembering the pain her mother caused her in a way she should remember, and she's living the love that he gives her, and they're together—and she's okay.

Because he's there.

Because he's trying so hard to keep the dark hues out, to keep the bright hues in, to make sure… she's going to be okay.

Sometimes, she gets moody, breaks down, and the green turns wild. Sometimes, her bright eyes go dark when she cries in his arms, remembering what she desperately misses, remembering the love of her mother. And she cries until she can't cry any longer, and he sits there, pulling her into him, rocking slowly, the swaying motion lulling her to sleep, keeping her calm.

Sometimes, she's normal, though sad, and she likes to lock herself in the spare room to keep herself company, without his comfort, without his love—because that's what she's used to. Isolation. And she relives it sometimes because she needs her past to keep her sane, to keep her living, and despite his angry protests that it's only hurting her more—she has to do it.

And sometimes, the girl he knows is in there, the girl he had fallen in love with—the witty, sparkling, beautiful girl he had met that first day by the pool. The girl who blushes and gets angry, laughs and squeals, talks about her passions without a care of what he thinks, the girl who doesn't mind showing him what she's got, the girl… the girl, Rapunzel.

But then, he thinks, that's wrong. Because she is Rapunzel. This moody, sad, lonely, bright, beautiful girl. This girl is all of her. And he loves her—all of her. This girl with different green eyes is everything he's fallen in love with.

And he'll be there, through the ups and downs, no matter how green her green eyes turn, because he loves her. Because he loves her, he'll be there. Through thick and thin.

But slowly, the bright green in her eyes die.

And slowly, he's starting to lose his mind, trying to deal with the greens of her eyes.

The 'sometimes' of her breakdowns, the 'sometimes' of her solitude start to grow, start to become an every day thing, start to become always. And the 'sometimes' of the happy Rapunzel begins to die, leaving nothing but a walking corpse of tears.

And he's trying—he's trying so hard, but he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make her happy, but he's trying so hard because he loves her.

Green becomes the dark hues in her eyes, the emerald green color that glistens with tears that drown them. As the days pass by, her solitude becomes real, the world grows smaller and smaller, and as she grows lonelier and lonelier, she begins to yearn for her mother's touch.

She's tried to pass time by tidying up the house. The curtains grow cleaner, free from all dust as she flaps them outside every day, the floor shined and waxed, and the fridge is always packed with the aroma of her specialties. But nothing in the world can compare to what she once had: her mother.

Not even Jack.

"Rapunzel, you have got to stop doing this to yourself," he says gently when he comes home one day to find her huddled in a corner crying again for the third time that week.

She doesn't say anything, merely buries her head into her knees until her damp skirt is unable to hold any more tears.

He kneels so that they are face-to-face, and takes her wet cheek into his palm so that their eyes meet. "Hey. Come on. Let's get you washed up, okay? A nice warm bath?"

Their eyes interlock, and his worry suddenly overwhelms her. She doesn't know what she's doing anymore. Why is he helping her so much? Why is he trying so hard to make her happy? What has she been doing here all these few months, why is she with him, why is he there, why is this _killing her so much that she can't stop the depression in her mind?_

She doesn't understand, and she doesn't _get it_.

Nothing's the same anymore.

"Stop it," she whispers.

"What?"

"Being so nice," she says. "Stop being so nice. I don't understand why you're trying so hard."

He's confused because they've never talked about their relationship together. They just… kind of were. They just went along with what happened, and he's always known it was unhealthy, but he's never minded. He's never minded when she came over like his house was a habitual thing to her, he's never minded that she crashed over at his house when she tried to avoid her angry mother, he's never minded when, even after her mother was arrested, and she had nothing left but the memories of the home that wasn't even officially hers, she had ended up staying—for good, he's never minded her. "I thought it was kind of implied—"

"Why didn't you stop them?" she asks, interrupting him, her eyes big and wide and innocent.

"Stop who?"

"Stop them! The people who took my mother!"

"Rapunzel, those people were cops. I can't stop the cops," he frowns. He's confused. They've never… they've never thoroughly discussed the event of that day, that day months ago.

"You could have done something!" she replies frantically, the fabric in her fingers crumpling together into a ball under her frustration. "She was my _mother._"

"Rapunzel…," he eyes her warily because he suddenly realizes her tantrums and outbursts have been a frequent thing lately, but they had never occurred weeks earlier, "have you been to your therapy sessions lately like you were supposed to?"

"Yes, of course," she says, but he knows she's lying because her eyes turn away the minute she speaks.

"Rapunzel," he warns, turning her face so that their eyes connect once more.

"Okay, fine, I haven't," she admits. "But it's because they're always spouting all this nonsense about my mother! I love my mother, Jack. But going to therapy makes it feel as if everyone wants me to hate her. And… I can't do that."

"Hey, no one ever said you have to hate her," he says softly, reaching out his hand to comfort her small shoulders.

"You hate her."

"Maybe," he acknowledges. "But you don't have to."

And she's crying again, and he's not sure what to do to stop it. So he sits there with her and lets her cry her heart out until she's ready to calm down and go shower or at least sleep.

But she doesn't calm down.

"Why didn't you stop them?" she whimpers again, wiping her big green eyes with the sleeve of her dress. "If I'm allowed to not hate her, why can't I have her? Why didn't you save her for me?"

"I couldn't do that. You know that."

She crawls out of his comfort and into the open space of his living room, her long hair flowing behind and following in a swift, smooth movement. She pulls herself together, hugs herself tightly with her thin arms because she suddenly doesn't want his comfort. It's too much. There's just so much… _affection, _and she's not sure what to do with all of it. Where does it go? What does she do?

"That's a lie," she cries. "That's a lie! You could have done something!"

He narrows his eyes in disbelief. "You testified against her."

"Because you told me to!"

"I told you to do what you thought was right." His eyes blink once. Twice. His lips fold together, his tongue licking his lips in irritation as he scrutinizes her body language. Suddenly, everything clicks—he's tying everything together, the way her anger sputs towards him, the questions, the turn from his affection—"Are you… getting mad at me? Are you blaming me for her arrest?"

She's not sure how to respond. She knows she shouldn't blame him, but suddenly everything is just too much—"You didn't do anything! You didn't save her!"

"I couldn't do anything! How many times do I have to tell you?" His voice is getting louder, and she just wants to curl into a ball and shut it out. She's tired, and she doesn't know what's going on. What is she doing with her life? Where did it go? …What color is it now? She is drifting between black and gray as she begins to lose her mind, her insanity. She thought isolation was keeping her sane, but maybe there's nothing that can stop what's driving her mind to depression.

He shakes his head because their relationship is taking a tumble down the road, and he just wants to fix it. But he doesn't know how. Because no matter how hard he tries… no matter how hard he tries, it seems as if it's never enough. He sighs, his fingers combing through his white hair as he mutters as an afterthought, "And I wouldn't have done anything if I could. Your safety means more to me than anything else."

"Even my happiness?" she challenges.

"If you're not alive, your happiness doesn't _mean_ anything."

"You don't have a right to that."

"I don't have a right to make sure you're okay?"

"You're not my boyfriend!" she screams.

"Oh, because if we're not 'official,' I'm not allowed to make sure that you're safe and sound? That's bullshit. And you know it," he seethes. "So I was being selfish. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry for being selfish, for not trying to make you happy at that moment, that I prioritized your safety over everything else. I'm sorry for fucking that up—okay? I make mistakes that I'm trying hard to fix to make sure you're okay! But I'm not sorry for caring. And I'm not sorry she's in prison."

Her eyes begin to water up, and she has to blink a few times to keep them back before her vision goes blurry. "How could you say that?" she whispers.

"Because, Rapunzel. I can hate her. You might not, but I can. And I do."

He's shaking with anger, and he has to pace himself back and forth until the blood in his body has calmed down. He purses his lips together, and is ready to scream at her again but stops. He's done. He can't do this. He's not up to get his heart stomped over. He's already tried so hard, and he doesn't know how much longer he can take before everything inside of his crumbles.

He wants to make her happy… but how do you make someone happy if they're not ready for the help?

His fingers brush through his hair furiously before he turns around to retreat back to his room. He's done. He can't… he can't _do _this anymore. He can't shower her with his love if she… if she doesn't want it… Because doing this… doing this is turning him into the corpse he sees as he looks at her. And dealing with the greens of her eyes has literally killed him inside.

He's ready to leave, shut himself in solitude to just give himself space, but he stops for just one moment to add, "You know what? You weren't even happy with her. So what good would it have done if I hadn't prioritized your safety?"

"Jack—"

He turns, his eyes pained, "We're done, right? You made that quite clear that there is _nothing_ in this relationship. And that unless we're official, I have no right to care. And if that's what makes you happy, fine."

Her green eyes are glistening with tears, and she doesn't know how to stop it. And it suddenly feels like her bleak gray world is slowly going black. And she doesn't know what to do.


End file.
